In The Quiet

In The Quiet

Snow fell about in the quiet.

The scarecrow was on a knee, crooked there in the field

as though sinking in a sea of white.

A barn stood and sheltered animals. The dark sky breathed only cold upon leaning stalks of brown corn.

In the quiet, furrows of crystal formed atop frozen earth, and an owl tore through warm sinew.

Inside the farm’s house, a farmer sipped black coffee and studied his fire.

He felt phantom fingers touch the crook of his neck, he flinched, and sipped once more.

The fire claimed the oak he fed it. Its light flashed through the room and lent heat in great heaves.

He sipped and thought of her in the quiet he shared with all she’d left. The quilt on the couch, sewn by her fingers lent its warmth across his shoulders. Her hands that had canned and pickled, washed their clothes, and filled lamps with oil.

Her smile he’d taken with him on trips were she’d not been. The scent of her soap had cast spells upon him when he would return.

And now, the doom of her distant death still loomed. It held him captive in the quiet. Her words, lost pearls in oceans of gone years, still crisp as the day they rode her lips.

Many nights she died again for the first time within his lost head. Tears came no more from the well that had long ago been cried dry.

Days of mirth, lovely nights in the warmth of winter fires sometimes made him smile. But tonight, as the snow crowded in silent drifts, he chose to sip his bitter coffee and remember in the quiet.

GJH 2009